


Hawke, P.I

by tigeressdion



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Custom Hawke, Depression, Developing Friendships, F/F, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Oh, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Purple Hawke, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, Swearing, as fuckign always, bc idk how graphic the violence is going to be, bc whats a story without it, emotionally theres no slower burn out there, for hawke :/, hawke and carver are p.is, hawkes alignment here is chaotic dumbass, if we're putting labels on things ;), its hawke n isabela so like, kind of??, like theres a lot of plot i dont want to spoil it guys, not a major factor but yknow its nice to know, oh n we're not friendly to leandra hawke in this fic, other minor characters but yall dont need them tagged, warning tho:
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-07-06 23:09:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15896034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigeressdion/pseuds/tigeressdion
Summary: “How much do you know about underground, unsanctioned by the city, fights?”“Like boxing?” Hawke asks, narrowing her eyes. “The ones with wannabee doctors that got kicked out of med school and powerful, dangerous people taking bets on less powerful, more dangerous people? The ones that people like, oh, I don't know, Aveline, raid pretty regularly?”“Exactly those, except it's not boxing, it's unregulated fights where anything goes.” Varric nods approvingly. “They're a quick way to make an easy buck.”“To what end?” Hawke asks, shaking her head. “Andraste's flaming tits, Varric. This is exactly the kind of thing I don't what to be involved in anymore. And what will Aveline say?”“Three things.” Varric holds up three fingers. “One.” He puts one down. “To the end that we both make enough money to do right by ourselves. You get set up as a proper P.I and support your family, I don't have to bother with that bloody Merchants’ Guild anymore. Two.” The second finger goes down. “I know that, but the straight and narrow isn't exactly doing it for you, is it? Three.” The final finger goes down. “Aveline knows.”





	Hawke, P.I

**Author's Note:**

> first proper fic in this fandom, so i hope yall enjoy!  
> BIG thanks to marabrosca on tumblr for just like, letting me send dumb messages abt this lmao  
> also!! worry not, i have big ol chunk of this written so please do get invested lmao

Her alarm jolts her from sleep into reluctant wakefulness. Hawke slaps her hand on the bedside table until she finds her phone, squints at the screen long enough to off the alarm, and drops her face back into her pillow. When she wakes up again hours later, she's lost the chance to play at being a productive member of polite society, so gives up completely. She takes forty minutes to simply lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, by which point its 10:56 and the day has stubbornly settled on being sunny and is making its point by forcing beams of light through the blinds.

 

So, eventually, Hawke drags herself out of bed. The consequences are severalfold. For one, her mabari groans and huffs a sigh that sounds tragically put upon as he has to readjust his position in the bed now that she's not there to act as pillow. For another, her head spins somewhat and a headache makes itself known the moment she stands, and finally her eyes water anew when she pushes the blinds up and faces the day. But, she soldiers on, opens the window wide despite the risks of doing so in Lowtown, and heads to the kitchenette.

 

Breakfast is a lost cause and she doesn't bother to think about beginning. Instead, she starts the coffee-making process and collects the post. Bills, unsurprisingly. She leaves them on the counter and fills a mug with coffee, adds copious amounts of sugar and milk and doesn't bother feeding the dog yet. Without exercise first, he's as bad as her for eating.

 

She checks her messages on her phone. Aveline, Varric, and, at a glance, what looks like something passive aggressive from her mother. Hawke elects to ignore them all and sips at her coffee, eyes the dog as he pads downstairs and whines at her.

 

“Time to go out?” She asks him, answered by the thump of his tail against the floor. “Alright.” She leaves her coffee unfinished on the side. It's not like there's any real point to her drinking it anyway; the caffeine doesn't do shit.

 

She's showered and dressed in ten minutes, her headache having receded but the tiredness still lingering in her bones. As usual. She doesn't have to be at work until the afternoon anyway, so it's not like she's wasting time. The dog keeps perfect pace with her as they jog a circuit of Kirkwall, but she switches up her usual route. She skips out Hightown entirely, not wanting to run into Aveline, and circles round the Hanged Man rather than meet Varric. When it comes to Gamlen's house, she doesn't bother. It's not like anyone inside would make the effort to confront her, let alone talk to her.

 

Instead, Hawke makes the turn for the docks. The smell of brine and rotting fish reminds her exactly why she doesn't go running there, particularly when her stomach’s feeling sensitive anyway, and she calls her mabari back gruffly before he can investigate any suspect crates.

 

Her heart skips up into her mouth at one point, when someone she passes says “hey, I know you. From Ferelden?” but she keeps running and her breathing steadies again when she hears a woman's voice reply “no, darling, I'm from Rivain.” She's out of earshot before the conversation can continue.

 

As usual, she cuts around the Gallows and heads instead for the outskirts of Kirkwall and the Wounded Coast. The sea breeze is welcome in its chill and Hawke stops for the first time on the run. She stands with her hands resting on her hips and breathes deeply, tugs up the hem of her shirt to wipe some of the sweat from her face.

 

There's a muffled squeak to the side of her and Hawke glances over to see Merrill, blushing, as she stares at Hawke's exposed torso.

 

“See anything you like?” Hawke asks with a fleeting smirk, dropping her shirt back down.

 

“Oh. I mean, yes. No! I mean, you can't really say that to your friends, can you? Well- Maybe you can, but-”

 

“Merrill,” Hawke interrupts, smiling when Merrill takes a breath a looks relieved. “Don't suppose you've got any water on you?”

 

“Of course!” Merrill pulls a bottle from her satchel and approaches to hand it over. “You forgot yours?”

 

Hawke nods in between swallows. “Coy was very insistent on getting his run.”

 

Hearing his name, the mabari pauses in his investigation of a small pile of rocks in the sand to bark at Hawke.

 

Merrill nods sagely and falls quiet as Hawke continues to sip from the bottle. “I didn't know you had a six pack,” she says, quite casually, after a moment, and breaks into laughter when Hawke turns red and chokes on the water.

 

“Oh- Sorry, sorry!” Merrill says, patting Hawke on the back at an attempt at help as she gasps for breaths in between laughs. “That's me not thinking before I talk again. Are you alright?”

 

“Fine,” Hawke manages, waving her off and handing the bottle back. “Thanks. I'm just not used to people propositioning me before midday.”

 

“I wasn't-” Merrill cuts herself off, looking at Hawke. “You're joking again.”

 

Once Hawke had her breath back, she gestures at Merrill. “So, what are you doing out here?”

 

“Just collecting some herbs and cuttings and things,” Merrill says brightly. “It's replanting season, so I thought I'd take the time to work on my garden whilst there's a gap in my schedule.”

 

“Maintaining your spot as the greenest hovel in the Alienage?”

 

“ _Hawke_.”

 

“Sorry,” she says, even as a grin quirks her lips. “The restoration business slow at the moment then?”

 

“I suppose there's only so many antiques that can need restoring at any time,” Merrill says with a slight shrug. “What about you?”

 

Hawke affects a thoughtful posture. “No, I've not restored any antiques lately either.” She inclines her head back towards Kirkwall and Merrill followed as they began the walk back.

 

“You know what I mean,” Merrill says, scratching Coy's head as he walks at her heel for a moment.

 

“Business is about the same,” Hawke says, mirroring Merrill's shrug. “I guess there's never a shortage of people committing crimes. Or cheating, actually. It's mostly people cheating and me getting paid for photographing them.” She pauses, grimaces. “It's like I'm a camerawoman for pornos, sometimes.”

 

“Hmm.” Merrill frowns slightly. “Varric never mentioned that in his book.”

 

“It's not exactly the romantic picture of a P.I he's trying to sell,” Hawke says with a brief laugh. She adopts a mock-severe expression and her best imitation of a noir-film narration. “Day 23. Seen more couples commit adultery. One man could satisfy neither wife nor girlfriend. Why is my life this empty?”

 

Merrill shakes her head, flushing slightly. “You must enjoy it really.”

 

“It pays the bills,” Hawke replies, non-committal, thinking of the several unopened letters on her kitchen counter. “Actually, could you do me a favour? Since you're not working today, you mind watching Coy for me? He'd be fine at home until I get back, but he likes your place more.” Especially since she'd moved the two of them out of Gamlen's house and he didn't have the constant company anymore.

 

“Of course!” Merrill beams up at her. “He can help with the gardening.”

 

“Hear that, boy?” Hawke asks, directing her question at the mabari. “You're going to be put to work.”

 

Coy looks up at her, panting, and wags his tail.

 

“He seems fine with it,” Hawke tells Merrill, grinning.

 

The walk back to Lowtown is filled with idle chatter between them, various updates on Merrill's family, a slightly prickly subject, but one she navigates with characteristic blitheness; Hawke’s family, meaning she confirms she's still working with Carver and says nothing more on the subject; and gossip about their mutual friends, which extends currently to Varric and Aveline. Varric, they know nothing about, other than he might be in the middle of another book. Aveline, they also know nothing about, other than she might have a crush on someone who may or may not also be with the police. They part at the entrance to the Alienage quarter, promising each other to do a better job of investigating their friends' social lives.

 

The office for Hawke & Hawke, Private Investigators is small, located up a rickety stairway on the edge of Lowtown. Easy access for anyone with the money to hire them from Lowtown through to the Gallows, and not too much of a trek into undesirable areas for Hightown tenants in need of some undesirable work done. Of course, in the long-game they'll have an office and a team that sprawls through Hightown, maybe take over Viscount's Keep. Until then, it's windows that get stuck halfway open and a door that's constantly threatening to fall off its hinges.

 

Hawke stops back at her place only briefly, to change out of her running clothes, so she's at the office by one. She moves with her typical light-footedness and waits outside the door for about thirty seconds, so that when she pushes the door open it's nearly a minute past and Carver's ready to murder her.

 

“Thought you'd be late,” he snaps, pushing up from behind his desk immediately and gathering his things.

 

The issue of whether they needed two desks or one was a source of conflict for weeks. Hawke hasn't seen the point in wasting the money when there'd only ever be one of them in anyway, and the room was cramped enough. Carver had insisted, and without Bethany there to mediate Hawke’s incessant sarcasm and Carver's neverending contrariness, Hawke had thrown her hands up and allowed it, announcing loudly that he could foot the bill out of his own money and explain to clients why they only took size zeroes.

 

“Am I ever, brother dearest?” Hawke asks, breezing past him to sit at her desk and prop her feet on it.

 

Carver can't say anything, because she isn't, actually. What's worse is that _he_ has been, especially after his first hangover earlier in the year, so he's been particularly focused on levelling that score between them.

 

“You look a mess,” he says instead.

 

“Mhmm.” Hawke presses her lips together and raises her eyebrows, flicking through the files he's left on her desk. “Any clients?”

 

“No. Athenril left a message. She called me, but I told her to fuck off, so she left one for you. Don't take it, whatever the work is.”

 

When she glances at him, Carver's trying to stare her down, so she shrugs. “I'll see what she's offering.”

 

“ _Senga-_ ”

 

“ _Carver._ ” She cuts him off, levels her gaze at him without humour. “We have rent to pay on this place. I have my own bills to pay. You've got to make up whatever Gamlen can't on his place. We've got the Leandra pity party fund to keep topped up, because Maker-forbid she run out of jewellery to flash at whatever man she's after right now. You just said we haven't had a single client this morning. We take what we can get.”

 

Carver glares at his boots, fist clenching and unclenching at his side. Not for the first time, Hawke wishes he'd taken the army scholarship he'd been offered in Ferelden. Get through university, go straight into the army as an officer, make something of himself.

 

“It feels like the first year all over again,” he says after a long moment, forehead creasing into a frown.

 

Hawke stops the sympathy she knows he'd hate to see from showing on her face. “I know. We're not tied to her anymore. So, if- _if_ I take this job, it's on Hawke terms. Yeah?”

 

That, at least, seems to mollify Carver somewhat. He nods once, and opens the door.

 

“I'm going to be working tonight,” he says. “Finishing up the whole Travers adultery case.” He steps through the door and pauses again. “You know what you could do? See if Aveline has anything to throw our way.”

 

Hawke thinks of the text she's ignoring from Aveline, and nods. “Absolutely. That'll be top of my list.”

 

Carver thinks she's mocking him, she can see it, but he can't figure out what for, so he flips her the bird and slams the door behind him.

 

With an explosive sigh, Hawke slumps back in her chair and presses her thumb and forefinger to her eyes. More than anything, she wants to go back to bed and sleep for a decade. Instead, she finishes three separate lots of paperwork for three different clients, sees said clients to give them the unhappy news that _yes, they are being cheated on_ and _yes, this employee was trying to defraud you_ and _no, your sister doesn't appear to be poisoning your cat, but by all means pay me more money if you want me to check again._

 

After that, there’s officially no more open cases for her. She files everything away and then goes through the accounts, because she still has an hour and a half in the office and she doesn't want to text anyone back. If she wasn't feeling that way inclined already, looking at the accounts certainly make her consider jumping out the window. They're still doing what is known in the trade as “just scraping by”, and Hawke's trying to figure out where they, or she, can cut costs when her phone buzzes on the desk and she picks it up in despair.

 

It's Varric, again, and she unlocks her phone to read through the missed messages.

 

_From: bff_

 

_Do I have a business proposition for you hawke_

_(Received: 09:28.)_

 

_Said business proposition is time limited_

 

_Meet me at the hanged man tonight_

_(Received: 17:47.)_

 

Whilst she thinks about her response, she glances at the messages from Aveline and her mother.

 

_From: foxy_

 

_Tell Carver that, for the millionth time, I don't have the authority to offer him a job in the department._

_(Received: 06:31.)_

 

_From: mother_

 

_Have you sent the money to my account yet. I need it for the weekend._

_(Received: 08:16.)_

 

Hawke's responses are brief, at best.

 

_To: bff_

 

_k_

_(Sent: 17:58.)_

 

_To: foxy_

 

_only if u do me a favour too_

_meet me at the hanged man tonight yeh_

_(Sent: 17:58.)_

 

_To: mother_

 

_told u before- money gets transferred by direct debit at the beginning of every month. cant help u (: ask gamlen_

_(Sent: 17:59.)_

 

Hawke gives up then. She ignores the replies that come through as she leaves the office, only gets out her phone again halfway down the stairs to send a quick message to Merrill.

 

_To: merrill the mud lady_

 

_feel free to drop coy off at the hanged man_

_ill buy u a drink to say thank u :)_

_(Sent: 18:02.)_

 

That done, she traces the familiar path to the Hanged Man. As far as bars go, it's middling in terms of quality. The drinks are subpar, but they get you drunk enough. If Hawke's being honest, she only goes for the company.

 

She waves at Corff on the way in, tempted to ask if he knows any gossip she might profit from, but notes the crowd at the bar and elects to only put in an order for a drink. She can always come back later.

 

“Put it on my tab,” says a familiar voice next to her and Hawke summons a grin for Varric. “Thought you were going to stand me up, Hawke,” he says, smirking back.

 

“And miss a chance at that chest hair?” She asks, raising an eyebrow. “You must be mad.”

 

“Must I?” Varric looks doubtful, and they head to his usual table when she gets her drink. “Feels like I hardly see you anymore. Aveline says you're ignoring her texts. That she only hears from Junior now. And she isn't happy about _that._ ”

 

Hawke snorts. “Who would be?” She shakes her head, takes a long swallow of her drink, then sets it down. Her meals today have consisted of an apple and a banana- one drink had better be her limit. “Anyway, Aveline's spreading malicious lies about me. I replied to all my texts today. So.”

 

“Hmm.” Varric still looks doubtful, but he shakes his head. “This business proposition I wanted to talk to you about-”

 

“Oh, _yes._ ” Hawke raises both eyebrows at him. “Is it going to be successful in the way the last one was?”

 

Varric looks uncomfortable as he shifts in his seat, enough for Hawke to feel a pang of guilt, but she doesn't say anything and he keeps talking. “That was on Bartrand, and the police are still searching for him. Anyway, no. Hawke.” His expression brightens, and Hawke feels suspicion rise up inside her. “How much do you know about underground, unsanctioned by the city, fights?”

 

“Like boxing?” She asks, narrowing her eyes. “The ones with wannabee doctors that got kicked out of med school and powerful, dangerous people taking bets on less powerful, more dangerous people? The ones that people like, oh, I don't know, _Aveline_ , raid pretty regularly?”

 

“Exactly those, except it's not boxing, it's unregulated fights where anything goes.” Varric nods approvingly. “They're a quick way to make an easy buck.”

 

“And you want to- what? Start organising and rigging these things?”

 

“Oh, Maker, no. Not yet, anyway. But what I figure is that if I get a prize fighter or two under my belt, then I can start rigging fights. A few months in, half a year, maybe, I can start organising these things and making some real money.”

 

“To what end?” Hawke asks, shaking her head. “Andraste's flaming tits, Varric. This is exactly the kind of thing I don't what to be involved in anymore. And what will Aveline say?”

 

“Three things.” Varric holds up three fingers. “One.” He puts one down. “To the end that we both make enough money to do right by ourselves. You get set up as a proper P.I and support your family, I don't have to bother with that bloody Merchants’ Guild anymore. Two.” The second finger goes down. “I know that, but the straight and narrow isn't exactly doing it for you, is it? Three.” The final finger goes down. “Aveline knows.”

 

For the second time that day, Hawke chokes on her drink. “ _What?_ ” She demands, the moment she has her breath back. “What the fuck, Varric? What do you mean?”

 

“There's a guy she wants to track down, some criminal scum-”

 

“Unlike us, clearly.”

 

“And she thinks he runs with people I know, so as our friend she's giving us the go ahead. As a cop, she's turning a blind eye.”

 

Suddenly far less bothered about getting hideously drunk, Hawke downs the last of her beer. “So, hypothetically, if I agree to this- What's your plan? Need me to put up another five grand or what?”

 

“Well.” Varric takes a breath, leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers under his chin. “Before I can do anything, I need to know I have a fighter.” He pauses, glances away from Hawke. “Your brother- He was in the Ferelden Army, right?”

 

“No.” Hawke pushes her chair back, ready to leave. “No. You are _not_ getting Carver into illegal fights. Because you _know_ he'd say yes- Don't you dare ask him about this.”

 

Varric holds up his hands. “Alright, Hawke, alright. We'll leave Junior out of this. I understand.” There's a beat. “What about you?”

 

Hawke frowns at him. “What do you mean?”

 

“Don't play dumb, I've seen you when this place gets rowdy. You clearly know how to fight, you've been trained. You're quick on your feet and you're smarter than you let on. Plus, you're my best friend. I trust you.”

 

“ _Ugh._ Varric…” Hawke drops her head in her hands and rubs her forehead, hating how this idea is sounding more and more reasonable. “How long do I have to get in shape?”

 

“From what Daisy said to me earlier, you're already in shape,” Varric says with a wink, smiling when Hawke laughs in spite of herself. “I don't know. I'd say a few months. Time for me to integrate myself and get a fight lined up. Can you do it?”

 

It's true that she's far from out of shape, but she hasn't fought or trained like that in a long time. Hawke grins, feeling the edge to it. “Probably not, but that's never stopped me before, right?”

 

Varric laughs, clapping his hands together. “I knew you’d come round, Hawke.” Still chuckling, he stands and takes his and Hawke’s glasses back to the bar for refills.

 

As he does so, Hawke tries another deep breath. She can tell exactly no one about this, more or less. Not that there’s many people she can consider telling. Gamlen wouldn’t care, and the less he and Leandra know about her life the better. Carver can’t know, because he’d want to get involved and Hawke doesn’t know if she could stop him. By extension, that means she probably can’t tell Merrill. Merrill would tell Carver, almost certainly by accident, but she would.

 

“Oh,” Hawke groans, tips her head over the back of her chair and stares at the ceiling. “I need more friends.”

 

“What’s wrong with the ones you’ve got?”  
  
Hawke jumps, because apparently today is Sneak Up On Hawke Day and no one bothered to slip her the memo. She angles her head and arches an eyebrow at Aveline. “They’re all insistent on giving me a heart attack, for one thing,” she says.

 

Aveline rolls her eyes, nodding to Varric when he catches her eye at the bar. “What was this favour you wanted from me, Hawke?”

 

Hawke’s ready to dismiss it; ironically the last thing she needs now is more work. She stops herself though, because if she starts turning down work, then Carver will know something’s up, and he’ll ask her, get no answer, ask her friends, and eventually get an answer. There’s also the point that if the legit lines of work snowball, then she won’t need to enter underground fighting competitions. Item two on the agenda, then, is keep an eye out for a back-up fighter in case her luck does a one-eighty. Hawke doubts that’ll happen.

 

“Wondered if you had any jobs you could pass on my way,” she says to Aveline, and waves a hand when Aveline frowns and glances back at Varric. “No, he’s told me about that, and I’m on board. But I really do want this P.I business to carry on, and work is thin on the ground. You’d really be helping me out. And Carver,” she adds, in a moment of inspiration. “Keep him busy and he’ll stop pestering you with applications.”

 

Aveline, who had been ready to decline (Hawke can tell because she’s used to that expression), shifts and leans forward in her chair, leaning her forearms on the table.

 

It’s a gesture to assert dominance, but Hawke eyes the rippling tendons and the line of Aveline’s jaw and the ways her eyes are shadowed by the bar’s lowlight and crosses her legs.

 

“Alright, Hawke. Because you’re my friend and I want Carver off my back. It’s no easy money, though,” she warns, and Hawke nods attentively, pulling out her phone to take notes. “There’s a few things you could look into. One’s a woman who, I’m told, hangs around this bar. She’s offering money regarding some gang issue around the docks. She’s been told a thousand times that the police don’t do mercenary work, but she won’t listen. Maybe you can do something with that.

 

There’s always cold cases for missing persons that people are willing to pay investigators for.” Aveline sighs, pursing her lips. “I shouldn’t be saying this. There’s a woman who lives in the Alienage, Arianni. Her son went missing. I tell her to contact you, if you want. Even the Templars were involved looking for him, but we got nowhere.”

 

“Government agencies couldn’t do their job?” Hawke mocks surprise, covering her mouth with her hand. “Shocking.”

 

“Hawke.” More warnings. Aveline forces her to maintain eye contact. “Isn’t your brother thinking about joining one of those useless government agencies?”  


“Yeah, but then he remembered the Templars couldn’t stop the war that got his sister killed, so it’s like-” Hawke pulls a dubious face and shrugs.

 

“No one could,” Aveline reminds her, in a tone as close to gentle as she can manage.

 

A sharp laugh escapes Hawke. “Doesn’t sound like anyone tried.” She stops herself from saying anything else, notices through the haze in her head that her attempts at humour are falling flat, and she grimaces at the thought of her empty glass.

 

 _Really should have eaten something_.

 

Aveline’s looking at her with pity in those green eyes, so Hawke turns to look at the bar. “Corff stock any actual food in here?”

 

The question leaves her mouth half-completed, because whilst she’d been wallowing in self-pity and anger, the situation at the bar has shifted drastically. Varric’s just arrived back at their table with drinks for everyone, but what’s more interesting is that it looks like a brawl’s about to break out.

 

A dark-skinned woman with darker hair under a cornflower-blue bandana is leaning at the bar, radiating _get away from me_ vibes, whilst a group of men leer and lean towards her. Hawke’s on her feet before she can think, but stills again at the atmosphere shifts.

 

The woman looks one of the men, the leader, in the eyes, and her lips curl into a feline smirk as Hawke’s heart skips a beat. A split second later, she slams the leader’s head into the bar and whirls around to jab one man in the neck and leave him wheezing. She flicks her wrists and two butterfly knives appear in her hands. She grins wide at the other men and they look between each other and scurry out, one by one, hounded out by Norah at their heels.

 

“Holy shit,” Hawke murmurs, still staring.

 

“You’re drooling, Hawke,” Varric says, amusement colouring his voice.

 

“I’m in love, Varric.”

 

Hawke doesn’t see it, she’s still gazing at the mystery woman in a hope to telepathically communicate that she’s open to marriage, but she assumes Aveline turns to look at the woman, too. “What are you two on about?”

  
  
“That was so hot,” Hawke says, finally allowing Varric to pull her back into her seat, leaning an elbow on the table and propping her chin on it.

 

“Maker’s breath, Hawke, you’re one in a million. See a woman beat up a few creeps and you’re smitten.”

 

“She’s also drunk,” Aveline points out.

 

Hawke flips her the bird and reaches for her drink, only to find it’s a glass of water and that there’s also a bowl of stew in front of her. She frowns at it, and then directs the look at Varric. “Where did you get this?”

 

“They always serve it,” Varric says, a smug expression on his face that sits there too comfortably. “Mystery meat stew. Enjoy. Maybe after that you can have another drink.”

 

“You’re such a mother hen,” Hawke mutters, but digs in anyway, partially so that she can pretend she didn’t see the twitch at the corner of Varric’s mouth.

 

As she eats, she listens to Varric and Aveline’s idle chatter and wonders about how to bring up the whole underground fighting circles thing with Aveline. She still can’t quite believe that Aveline didn’t protest Varric’s plan, but then again Aveline’s always been more willing to bend the rules than she lets on.

 

“Well, hello.”

 

For the third time that day, Hawke chokes on her drink, Not terribly though, and she thinks she saves it enough that it just looks like she's clearing her throat. She looks up to see the mystery woman from the bar smirking down at her, and her heart rate suddenly picks up.

 

“Hi,” she says.

 

 _Keep it short, keep it simple, but don’t make_ her _think you’re simple._

 

“Mind if I sit?” The mystery woman asks, and doesn’t wait for permission before taking the seat between Hawke and Aveline.

 

Hawke tries not to laugh at the frustrated look on Aveline’s face, and focuses on the newcomer. “I saw that fight at the bar,” she says, an easy grin slipping onto her face. “You’re pretty good at that.”

 

“Oh, that?” The woman waves away the compliment, but the way her smile reaches her eyes betrays her lack of humility. “A scuffle, really. Poor Lucky doesn’t seem to live up to his name.”

 

“I’ll bet he deserves what he got,” Hawke says, tries to sound suggestive rather than lovesick, and succeeds maybe a little bit.

 

The woman’s grin is fleeting and she settles more in her chair. “I like a a gambling woman,” she purrs, and Hawke’s stomach swoops. “But, I should say, I came over here because Merrill’s ordered her drink and she said you’d pay for it.”

 

It takes a moment for Hawke to process that, but, sure enough, when she glances at the bar, Merrill smiles and waves at her, Coy standing patiently at her heels, keeping the other patrons from crowding her.

 

“Ah.” Hawke stands, then remembers herself and pauses by the woman. “What are you drinking?”

  
  
“Whiskey,” the woman says, grinning again and holding up an empty tumblr, only for Hawke to snatch her hand back.

 

“There’s a price,” she says, smirking when the woman laughs. “What’s your name?”

  
  
The woman appraises her for a moment, bright amber eyes roaming her face. “Isabela.”

  
  
Hawke takes her glass, their fingers brushing. “Hawke. It’s a pleasure.”

 

It’s only when she glances at Varric and Aveline to ask whether they want refills that she sees their caught between laughter and perhaps a small degree of awe. That decides it, they’ll get what they’re given.

 

At the bar, Hawke settles next to Merrill and nods to Corff for more drinks. “So, how do you know Isabela?”

 

Merrill breaks into a wide smile. “Oh, she's lovely, Hawke. She came in the other day, maybe a month ago? She wanted to look through the pieces I had to for sale. She didn't buy anything, which I didn't mind because you know I just want to hold onto everything really. Um- Oh, well she was really nice and funny and we got to chatting so we exchanged numbers.”

 

“You're dating?” Hawke asks, trying not to be disappointed, because it's what she should have expected.

 

Merrill looks thoughtful for a moment, a crease appearing between her eyebrows. “No. At least, I don't think we are. I can ask her, if you like.”

 

Hawke waves it away, grinning. “No need. Something tells me Isabela wouldn’t be subtle about it if you were.”

 

“No.” Merrill laughs, looking fond. “Probably not.”

 

Coy whines and bats Hawke's leg with his paw, and she crouches down to give him a fuss. “I'm so sorry, sir. Was I ignoring you?” She receives a face full of mabari tongue for her troubles, and nudges him away when her drinks arrive.

 

She and Merrill return to Varric's table, where Isabela is talking animatedly with Varric and Aveline seems to occasionally offering wry comments that only serve to make Isabela laugh.

 

“Drinks for everyone,” Hawke announces as she sets them down.

 

“On my tab, I hope?” Varric says, and Hawke winks at him.

 

“Everyone's except Merrill's.”

 

“So you're not buying me drinks then?” Isabela asks, pouting at Hawke.

 

Hawke offers her an apologetic look that _could_ pass for genuine. “Funds are low, we make do with what we can.”

 

“And to think I gave you my name,” Isabela sighs, but there's a grin lingering at the corners of her mouth.

 

“I'm sure I can find some way to repay you,” Hawke says, glancing at Isabela from under her lashes and leaning across the table.

 

Isabela’s eyes flick to Hawke’s lips, and she draws a breath to answer.

 

“ _Hawke._ ” Aveline speaks through gritted teeth, and Hawke grins at her lazily.

 

“Yeah?”

 

Aveline glares at her, much to the amusement of Varric and Merrill, judging by the giggling. “Would you mind continuing that in private, if you must.”

 

Hawke heaves an melodramatic sigh and glances at her watch. “I have to go anyway, I’ve got an appointment. Thanks for the meal, Varric.” She pauses as she stands, digs through her pockets for money for a tip, and shoots a significant glance between him and Aveline as she does so, hidden from the others.

 

Varric gives her a slight nod as she drops the money on the table.

 

“See you again?” She says to Isabela, grinning still.

 

“ _Absolutely_ ,” Isabela says, and grabs Hawke’s arm, a pen suddenly in her hand, and scrawls a number down her forearm. “I have a room here,” she says, dragging her fingers over Hawke’s wrist, smirking when she feels her pulse pick up.

 

Her final round of goodbyes said, she leaves the bar with a spring in her step and Coy at her heels. She texts as she walks.

 

_To: love of my life_

 

_hawke ;)_

_(Sent: 19:36.)_

**Author's Note:**

> hope yall enjoyed, feel free to let me know what you thought!  
> if you want to be cool and get in touch message me on mrbrandonflowers on tumblr bc i Love yelling abt these idiots


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